


3 Meetings and a Funeral

by Euryd1ce



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14720918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euryd1ce/pseuds/Euryd1ce
Summary: When the Brotherhood comes to town, General Nora of the Minutemen is prepared to greet them, but will it be with open arms or down the sight of a laser musket? Arthur Maxson isn't sure which he'd prefer.





	3 Meetings and a Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> OHAI EVERYONE! Welcome to another edition of "Eurydice takes a break from her long fics to get a quick fix." This should only be a few chapters long, but we all know how my predictions about length go (snrk), so saddle up buttercup. Here we go.

HIS:

 

Paladin Danse is an excellent soldier and a very serious man. He is not known to embellish tales nor encourage others to do so; he spends a rigorous number of hours on the firing range and in the sparring ring instead of meeting with other knights to relax around a fire and share beer; and even in his off-duty hours, he is well known for his unflagging loyalty to the truth coupled with a… sometimes claustrophobic attention to detail. It’s difficult to admit, but while no one aboard the Prydwen has a single complaint to make about Paladin Danse’s leadership, tenacity, or integrity… they also have a hard time remembering the last time he joked or smiled.

 

Therefore Elder Arthur Maxson, loathe as he is to admit it, has no choice but to believe that the vaulted General of the Minutemen is the same woman as the trigger-happy chem-addicted mercenary that Danse hired to help in the Cambridge Police Station. Maxson read the two reports himself and personally questioned the last of Recon Squad Gladius, so he knows the information is good but it still isn’t making sense. Furthermore, and this is the hardest part of all, when asked if the General would make a good ally for the fledgling Commonwealth branch of the Brotherhood of Steel, all three responded ‘yes’ without hesitation.

 

Every day for a week after docking, Maxson peered out the window of his cabin, gazing at old Fort Independence where the Minutemen were headquartered. 

 

_ If she’s a true leader, then she will be interested in gathering information about us, _ he thought.  _ If she’s a worthless scavenger, claiming a title that she doesn’t deserve because the citizens of the Commonwealth are too starved and weak to stop her, then she will not want us to remain. The Brotherhood represents law and order, even in these parts. _

 

It’s a difficult thing to be an Elder. On the one hand, he has absolute power to decide the entire fate of the order as well as enjoying accolades and privileges not available to even the celebrated rank and file. He has the authority to give orders as he pleases without needing to fill out tedious paperwork or prepare an audience to convince some higher-up and the men and women under his eye in most instances do not dare question him. On the other hand… he is alone. When his mind is preoccupied with thoughts such as these, he cannot simply walk down to the commissary and talk to someone until he understands the solution. That kind of candor would be unacceptable in a military leader with a background such as his, so he has to stand and think by himself or ask guarded questions of the only squad who knows her to elicit the information he  _ almost _ wants.

 

Scribe Haylen told him of her compassion and concern for their team even though she had no reason to assist. Despite her great concern, she still expected payment for her help which might imply that she has had to adapt to the Commonwealth from some softer, gentler place where compassionate behavior was the norm. Knight Rhys spoke of her single-minded determination to finish a job and unflagging stamina, which could mean that she either is used to the reins of authority or that she has some fresh emotional wound she is resolving through violence. The most interesting (again!) was Paladin Danse, who spoke of her impeccable strategy when choosing a plan of attack, her keen eye and unwavering hands when landing an accurate shot, and her efficient brutality when he was nearly felled by a feral ghoul with an infected bite. That conversation sounded dangerously close to a love letter when presented by Danse; even more so because it came coupled, unprompted, by a recommendation for Knighthood.

 

This strengthened his resolve that he needed to meet the General for himself.

 

Yesterday, he sent Recon Squad Gladius to Fort Independence (or The Castle as they were calling it) with an invitation for her and the escort of her choice to visit him that evening. He had intended to share a brief political meeting to find out what her purpose was and then present the crew of the Prydwen to her and announce what the terms of their alliance would be.

 

She sent back a note on a scrap of paper that read, “Tonight’s no good. How about tomorrow? Your people can pick me up at 7:00.” The signature  General Nora of the Minutemen was written in a strong cursive with a ballpoint blue pen. Maxson’s first instinct was to be enraged by her presumption (after all, wasn’t  _ he _ doing  _ her _ a  _ favor _ by initiating first?) but he found that the longer he thought about it, the more amused by it he became until he accepted. Perplexing.

 

He used the extra day to have the ship cleaned from stem to stern, order the Knights and Paladins polish their armor until it gleamed, then tidy his own quarters and pick the debris of the Commonwealth from the glossy fur of his battlecoat. Judging by the quality of the note’s paper, the Minutemen had not seen what a well-ordered society is capable of in quite some time- i f ever _. _ Making a strong first impression is diplomacy basics in terms of gaining allies. Everyone wants to be friends with the powerful new kid on the block in the hopes of catching a little boost for themselves and the Brotherhood is not a team to do things by halves. Every soldier is on high protocol for her visit and told, explicitly, that their behavior and attention could make all the difference in this strange wasteland.

 

So, when the vertibird bearing the Commonwealth’s local hero docks, Maxson is placed in front of his windows to receive her, hands folded and thinking about the great leaders of the past. He looks out upon the city so that his back is to her when she enters.

 

“Welcome, General,” he says impressively. “I hope your business yesterday was successful?”

 

“Yes, rather. Thank you for welcoming me aboard your… ah… zeppelin. I was hoping to get a chance to speak with you sooner, but there was a sudden infestation of mirelurks at the Fort. I found myself running back and forth all evening to restore power on that little island to the east and get the creatures to leave.”

 

“Successful indeed, then.”  _ Note to self: their defense is weak and it would be easy to sabotage their power. If a pack of mirelurks is enough of a crisis to force the leader of the Minutemen to the front lines, then they are hardly a threat at all. _ “I brought about this meeting so that we could speak and become clear to one another. The Brotherhood of Steel has come to the Commonwealth with peaceful intentions, General. Our interests are academic, diplomatic, and to a certain extent, bureaucratic. We have no interest in controlling the area or subjugating its people.”

 

“Oh? What  _ are _ you looking for, then?”

 

Maxson smiles to himself. He didn’t realize that she would be completely uninformed about their purpose. Maybe this would be an easy, quick meeting after all. “Technology, research, and weapon recovery, like all Brotherhood of Steel chapters. Our primary objective is to protect humanity from its own destructive tendencies. It is the belief of our founders that the destruction of the war could have been prevented by a more cautious and rigorous system of technological development. Now that its use has altered the course of humanity forever, the best and most responsible course of action is to collect all of the abandoned technology, related schematics, and documents, and keep it safe  _ away _ from the common people who don’t understand it or who would twist it to serve their own purposes.”

 

He hears the soft click of boots step to one side behind him. “That’s certainly  _ one _ interpretation of events,” she says in a light voice.

 

“We have lived by the Founder’s words through the Codex for generations. It has kept us strong and united in our goal: the protection of all humanity.”  _ Excellent. Make a solid impression, then fortify it with an implication that her speck of a militia pales before the long-standing wisdom of the Brotherhood. _ Then, he turns to face General Nora.

 

What he sees doesn’t make sense.

 

A short woman stands before him wearing the most ludicrous costume he’d ever seen. It looks like an historic officer’s uniform was stolen off a mannequin from the Museum of Freedom. From the tips of her black-polished riding boots to the gold-threaded epaulettes on her navy blue jacket, she looks like a female George Washington from the old oil paintings; the bright ideals and arrogance of the past, faded all to hell. 

 

This would be outrageous by itself, no doubt, but the image is completed by the woman inside the clown suit, who does not look like she belongs there  _ at all. _ She is quite short, as observed previously. Arthur is not a very tall man, but the top of her head might not even brush his chin. Secondly, she is standing relaxedly. Her arms are folded, but not tight with disapproval, just gently as though viewing a mildly interesting sight like a fishing boat come to dock or a pack of wild mongrel dogs eating a fallen radstag. Her hips are cocked to one side so she can lean on one foot and he sees no sidearm or boot-knife waiting there. It is curious that such a lauded leader would come to a private room with a strange man in his own territory and not even have a ready weapon in case of attack.

 

Most importantly, however, she is the most beautiful specimen of a woman that Elder Arthur Maxson has ever seen.

 

His lying heart immediately reminds him of his love for Sarah Lyons, but he corrects himself immediately. Sarah was a strong, intelligent, fiercely loyal woman for sure, but she had very few  _ soft _ attributes about her. She was all hard edges and rippling muscles; an exceptional soldier and competent leader, but also exceedingly unfeminine and uncomfortable in a dress or heels. By contrast, General Nora can fill out her clothes in a way that no underfed, irradiated wastelander could dream of, and more besides. Her shiny chestnut hair hangs below her chin, curling softly around her round, rosy cheeks blooming with health. The curious expression on her face is smooth, unpitted by disease, and marked by thick eyebrows and long lashes. Even her hands are not calloused, tanned, or marred by a lifetime of scars necessary for survival. She looks to Maxson like she was made… no,  _ sculpted _ for lovemaking.

 

It only takes two seconds for Maxson to pick up his metaphorical jaw from the ground hundreds of feet below, but it feels like the longest two seconds of his life reflected in her eyes. General Nora, probably while waiting for him to collect himself, clearly takes in his appearance as well. The little flecks of green in her hazel eyes sparkle as she takes in his crisp flight suit, well-manicured beard, and legacy battlecoat, but show no sign of approval or otherwise. Her face is inscrutable as her eyes linger on the set of his shoulders, the dark mask of his face, and the calm, leaderly expression he chose to put on. Maxson is suddenly very pleased, indeed, that he had chosen to groom himself with such care today.

 

“Strength and unity are two virtues severely lacking in the Commonwealth today,” she says in a prompting tone, inclining her head towards him.

 

“Yes. Strength. Unity,” he says slowly as if considering the weight of the words. In reality, he has completely forgotten what he was going to say next. He decides to wing it. Can’t be that hard to find his way back on track, right? “Two of the many virtues exemplified by the Brotherhood of Steel across the continent. There are chapters everywhere in the former United States, gathering technology and restoring safety to the people as well as restoring order and power to its citizens. Our ship, the Prydwen, hails from Washington D.C., the former capital, the site of a major technological...”  _ What are you doing!? _ Maxson thinks to himself while listening to his mouth drone on about the history of the Brotherhood,  _ This is not getting back on track! You sound like a squire leader. _

 

A cough from the back of the room catches his attention. It appears that General Nora was not caught out alone after all. A handsome black man in an equally ridiculous outfit steps up beside his officer and says, “General?”

 

General Nora immediately stands straighter and addresses Maxson briskly. “Um, yes, yes. All of that is  _ very _ interesting and I would  _ love _ to hear a more… _ detailed _ version at another date but, you see, I have only a certain allotment of time for this meeting today, Elder.”

 

“Ah,” he says, trying not to sag with relief. “I see. Please, then; is there a priority you wish to discuss?”

 

“Yes, there is.” She looks at her companion and he nods, then steps back into his guard position, hands correctly crossed behind his back. “You say that the objectives of your organization are to locate, collect, and store all pre-War technology in the Commonwealth, correct?”

 

All of the informality of a moment ago has vanished. They are, once again, respected leaders and diplomats. “Affirmative,” he says with authority.

 

“Does this include technology developed after the Wars? You see, my people often put together machinery and systems to protect their farms from raiders and increase the quality of production. It is important to me that their survival and the tools by which they maintain it is _paramount_ for us both.” Her eyes are locked onto his, no hint of green flecks to lighten the intensity. This question is clearly important.

 

“No," he says confidently. "That is to say…”

 

She cuts him off, pressing the matter further. “Their machinery shouldn’t fall under your jurisdiction for a number of reasons. One, your order is obsessed with pre-War tech and these, though admittedly cobbled together from pre-War parts, do not share the purpose and facility of those pre-War technologies you regularly confiscate.”

 

“Now hold on…” he says, holding up a hand to make her slow down.

 

Nora continues relentlessly. “Second, you are a guest in this airspace. You said yourself that you have no interest in controlling the people and the land of the Commonwealth, so adhering to some basic courtesy regarding the citizens who  _ are _ responsible for the health and well-being of the land shouldn’t be a burden on you or your subordinates.”

 

“What is the meaning of…?”

 

“Finally, and especially if the terms are agreeable, there is no need to be hostile neighbors towards one another. I will tell my men to leave yours alone but that they are free to offer such aid as they see fit and you can absolutely issue the same orders to yours. I expect, of course, that the Fort is off-limits to the Brotherhood without permission and an escort, just like it is for us here, which is a perfectly reasonable expectation. Speaking of which, you can come out now, soldier.” This last part she addresses over her shoulder to the corner of the room, where an escort has, indeed, been silently hiding. The scribe jumps and steps out, showing off her immaculate black stealth jumpsuit. She looks horrified to have been detected but to her credit stands at attention all the same.

 

“There you are, lovely.” General Nora doesn’t seem offended at all. If anything, she appears impressed. “I am pleased to know that even the famous Elder Maxson, descended from the founder Captain Roger Maxson, isn’t so full of himself as to become vulnerable to assassination even in his own cabin.” She smiles prettily at him and one cheek dimples.

 

Arthur has no idea what to say. He realizes that he has been completely overwhelmed by the change in attitude of the General and that he has made the mistake of letting her set the terms first. She used his own words to bind them to her desires, then flashed him a peek at her hand just long enough to inform him that she knew much, much more than she originally let on. Maxson might even be angry about the deception if his heart weren’t thudding disorientingly in his ears.

 

“Yes. Constant vigilance is part and parcel of any military order.” He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders. “Since you are pressed for time, I propose that a meeting at a later date be set to detail the terms of our… alliance.”

 

The General tilts her head to one side. “More like a shared lease, but yes that sounds very good. Now, I know you’re a busy man, but if you have just a moment longer, I brought a little housewarming present for you.” Into her open hand, her costumed guard places a glass bottle full of honey-brown liquid and bearing an impossible label: Lagavulin 21.

 

“Where did you find this?” Maxson says, trying not to betray how deeply impressed he is. It is nigh impossible to find untouched stashes of old-world treasures, much less anything consumable. 

 

“I know a man with a deep cellar,” she says with a smile as though she knows what he’s thinking anyway. “He has all kinds of little gems like this that he hands out in exchange for a few errands.” She takes the bottle from her man and hands to him her tricorn hat to hold instead. Her chestnut brown hair is carefully styled and pinned into victory rolls that sweep up and over her ears; another lovely womanly detail Arthur hadn’t noticed before. The stealthy scribe, as though trying to match the other man’s level of service, crosses to the drink cabinet and brings Maxson two polished scotch glasses. He pours two fingers of Lagavulin for each of them and hands her one.

 

“To strength and unity,” he says solemnly, toasting her.

 

“Strength and unity,” she repeats, softly touching her glass to his with a little  _ clink. _ The sound sends a ripple of shivers up his arm. “So, tell me about yourself,” she says in a casual voice. They might be sitting across from one another in the canteen on the first day of boot camp.

 

“I…” What does one say? Does she want to know his rank and file? Should he tell her about his rise to power?

 

She giggles at his hesitation- actually giggles. The sound is light and floats like mist from a cool pond in the morning. “Let me ask it a different way. What do you like to do when you’re not tromping around the ship in your combat boots and fatigues? What music do you like to listen to? What games do you like to play?”

 

Maxson answers stiffly, “The Elder does not frequently have the luxury of downtime. When I am not directly overseeing the crew of the Prydwen, I am usually answering correspondences from D.C. and writing ordinals to the Midwest and Mojave chapters.”

 

“That must get very tiring after a while.”

 

“I… I do not notice.”

 

“Ok.” She sips her scotch, then continues questioning him. “How about music?”

 

“I am not familiar with many styles.”

 

“Games?”

 

“I have not played any in years.”

 

She purses her lips and thinks. “...favorite landmark?”

 

“What?”

 

“There’s got to be something,” she says reasonably, tapping the glass against her lower lip.

 

“For what?” says Arthur, trying to distract himself from staring at her mouth thinking about how she would taste. A kiss pressed against her full, pink lips would taste now of smoky scotch and something warm and spicy.

 

“Something that you enjoy about life. Something you like. Something that makes you _ human _ . Your switch can’t be in the ‘on’ position all the time.”

 

Suddenly, he feels a need to prove himself. He racks his brain for the last thing he did not because of an obligation or duty, but because he chose to. After a few long moments, he comes up with something.

 

“I read a science fiction magazine recently, ‘The Mad Russian’s Revenge’.”

 

“Excellent!” she says, smiling with her dimple again. “You’re an Awesome Tales fan! Have you read Giant Insects Invade? If you can find a copy that hasn’t lost its color, it’s one of the originals from the 2030’s before they switched to a different way of layering the panels…” and she’s off. She tells him about the history of the series and the recurring timelines naming several issues he’s seen his soldier read, but never touched himself. He watches her with fascination, feeling drawn in by her enthusiastic gestures and conspiratorial asides when mentioning production secrets, even though she left the realm of his understanding almost immediately. It’s unclear whether he is enjoying her lecture because of her expertise or because when she moves closer to him, he can almost detect the scent of her perfume.

 

“...I have a copy somewhere I can bring next meeting. If you enjoy it, then I have many more recommendations for you. Yes?”

 

He straightens immediately and tries to remember the last thing she said and comes up blank. “You lost me for a moment,” he admits, feeling out of his depth for the second time. She keeps catching him out and it is becoming unacceptable.

 

“The Martian Chronicles. I think it would be enjoyable for you.” She smiles and looks at him through her long, delicate eyelashes. “I'm afraid that I get a little excited about old media. There’s so little left these days.”

 

“Indeed,” he says, not sure what to add.

 

“You haven’t touched your scotch. Not an alcohol fan?”

 

“Oh.” There’s a glass in his hand. He should do something about that. He takes a sip and is rewarded with a singular bloom of warm smoke that seems to breathe into his eyes. The liquid tingles across his tongue and burns down his throat, leaving behind a memory of earthy peat and begs for another sip. The second, he lets sit in his mouth until his teeth feel like they’re pressing against a steel sword. It’s a fantastic drink.

 

“General?” The handsome black guard says once more and holds out Nora’s tricorn hat.

 

“Oh, all right.” She takes her hat from him and when she settles it firmly back on her head, neatly placed to compliment her chestnut brown curls, her entire demeanor changes. She stands straighter, her face resumes its expression of mild detachment, and her words become authoritative again. “Mr. Garvey, please inform the vertibird that we will be departing imminently.”

 

Mr. Garvey’s attention is immediate as well. “Yes, General,” he says crisply, saluting her with a flat hand over his heart and exiting at a quick march.

 

“It has been a pleasure,” she says, looking him unflinchingly in the eye. “I look forward to more meetings of such caliber in the future.” She, too, turns to go, more slowly but Maxson suddenly calls to her.

 

“Wait... your whisky.”

 

General Nora doesn’t exactly smile, but a little of the previous warmth creeps into her voice. “Please, keep it. I know where to get more.” She inclines her head respectfully and follows her man. “If you need anything,” she calls over her shoulder, “don’t hesitate to give me a shout. I’m sure your delightful megaphone will be more than up to the task.”

 

The door clangs shut behind her and Maxson is left staring out his great glass window, wondering what the hell just happened. Did he just make a negotiation? Did he just have a diplomatic meet and greet? Or did he just have a speed date? Bewildered, he finishes his last divine sip of scotch and barks, “Scribe!”

 

The response comes immediately, colored with embarrassment and shame. “Yes, Elder?”

 

“Assemble a team of initiates; soldiers who can still pass in plainclothes. I want the Minutemen infiltrated and observed, but it must be absolutely covert. They cannot be found. Make a list of names and asses requisitions and have it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

 

“...yes, Elder.”

 

He hears her hesitation. “You did very well, Scribe. I suspect she or her man knew you were there from the beginning. It might be worth your while to take your stealth suit to the mechanic's deck.”

 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

 

And she, too, leaves. Only an empty glass remains for him to contemplate. General Nora of the Minutemen... Who are you really?


End file.
